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Blackened Handkerchief
Sitting in soot, I have a sonder, only the main character in the page-turning novel of my life and my life only. Black fumes climb into my lungs, the invisible smell, as my throat hacks at the story of my life, shredding as many pages as possible. Blood geysers into my mouth, metallic and cold, spewing into my blackened handkerchief, my last gift from you, as the canary sings her final tune.
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Great use of alliteration. That tool helps the pace move faster, which is interesting since it seems like we are reading about a guy that is dying of TB.
The carburetor sat ignored on the shelf by the signatures of browned grease smudges stating, “Bearings were here, May of 1997.” The man’s stained, blue sleeves wrapped around tree trunk forearms and fingers as thick as he was stubborn eyed it wearily. 3 summers and 30k miles ago he had picked it up from a graveyard of, once glorious, shining steeds, now decaying steel bones rank in pools of their black, dripping formaldehyde. He picked it up with a knowing sigh. It had been life insurance, a second hope. It still would be, but not for his lame steed—a charging, colorblind F150 made sure of that. The screeching of burning rubber still stung his ears through every intersection.
The first sentence is cool, and kind of has a nostalgic feeling. The second sentence lost me a bit. This happens some times when we rely on adjectives and adverbs too much. The junk yard being a morgue/graveyard is a neat image. The longing feeling is strong. You are very good at portraying an overarching feeling without beating us with it. Like a subtle hint of what you should feel as you are reading it. The only critique is that your use of adjectives can overstate sometimes, rather than relying on nouns and verbs to really generate the imagery. Great job.
blackened handkerchief
i hack up the remnants of my lungs into a folded pocket handkerchief. a glob of black coughed up, the faint taste of phlegm in my swollen sinuses, growling like a werewolf when the moon beams scatter on the surface of the lake. swallowing it whole into the night. fatigued body like a wooden model posed to reference, bending wire skeleton. i collapse, a dusty burlap sack of bones. disappear into mounds of golden sand twinkling under warm light that hits the stage. rattling of grains of sand falling from my clenched fists, can i save one? im swung by my legs
Lonely Funeral
Fresh dirt putters rhythmically on her naked body. A desperate congregation of trees stand paralysed watching the horror before them. Wind swims frantically through the never ending forest, carrying her final wails. The moon casts a spotlight on the crime scene. Nature is warning, but no one hears.